All I Want For Christmas
by J9
Summary: CJ thinks about Christmas. (CJ/Simon; AU, SIA)


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Title: All I Want For Christmas

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Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

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Rating: PG

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Pairing: CJ/Simon;

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Spoilers: All the Simon eps, and it's AU from there.

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Feedback: Makes my day

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Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

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Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo (helsinkibaby.topcities.com) Anywhere else please ask first. 

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Summary: CJ thinks about Christmas

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Author's Note: Total and complete Christmas fluff here, and it's all the fault of the challenge that went out on the CJ/Simon list - I want to say that it was Dee who issued it, but if it's not, I apologise in advance! Anyhow, blame goes there! 

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I close my briefing book with a snap, wishing the press corps a very merry Christmas, and walking out the door with a spring in my step. Calling a full lid on Christmas Eve is one of the best feelings that there is in my job, knowing that I'm only a matter of hours away from walking out of here and forgetting about everything that my job entails. Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and aside from the requisite holiday pageantry and Christmas movies, my television set will not be turned on, not any of them. I will immerse myself in peace and goodwill towards all men, and I will not think about foreign policy, or affairs of state or spin-doctors, or any of that. I will, quite simply, enjoy the day. 

Carol joins me on the walk down the corridor, her steps keeping pace with mine easily, a skill born of years of practice, and the thought comes to me, making me giddy, that we have four more years of this walk to look forward to. It looked decidedly dicey for a little while there in the summer, but we won the election, and the mood around the West Wing this Christmas has been more festive than I ever remember it being. This is proven by the fact that Carol wasn't standing by my side in the briefing room just now, if for no other reason than the fact that hanging from her ears are earrings shaped like Christmas trees, complete with flashing lights. We could have lived with the earrings, we could have even lived with the lights. However, it was the fact that they play "Ding Dong Merrily On High", loudly, I might add, that pushed us over the edge. 

Carol's eager to get home, as are we all, and in a rush of the Christmas spirit, I tell her to head off, that I can yank the last of the wires myself. She's got some last minute shopping to do, so that suits her fine, and she's off like lightning, as I smile after her fondly, grabbing the last of the Christmas cookies from her desk - and really, who knew my assistant was such a homebody?- and going into my office, sitting down in front of the computer, beginning to read. 

I don't get very far though, when there's a gentle knock at my door, and I look up to see Donna standing there, an uncertain smile on her face. "Are you busy?" she asks me, and I shake my head, holding the box out to her. 

"Come in," I tell her. "And have a cookie."

"Are those Carol's?" she asks, a gleam in her eye, and she enters quickly, closing the door behind her, lest Toby or Josh see us and rob some. It's only when she sits down that she puts something on the table in front of me, and my eyes widen in surprise. 

"I thought I told you that I didn't want anything for Christmas this year," I tell her, and indeed, that was something that I told all of the West Wing staff this year. I'm still using up the toiletries that my beloved spin boys got me for my birthday, and the notion of getting another set wasn't exactly high on my priority list. For once, they listened to me, although Toby did give me a box of my favourite chocolates, and Josh has resisted from making any gaffes which I would have to spend the better half of a press briefing clearing up, which I suppose one could count as a Christmas present to me. Carol listened to me; though she has been baking to beat the band for the last week, foisting a new batch of cookies on me every day, not that I'm complaining mind you. 

Donna, on the other hand, is sitting in my office, having just handed me a gift-wrapped box which is too big to be chocolates, and too expensive looking to be anything small and homemade. I try staring her down, but she just grins, shrugging. "No, what you told me is that you didn't want anything in particular. And while I know you're the woman with everything, I still wanted to get you something," she tells me. "It's been a bad year," she adds, and I can't deny it. "And I don't know if I'd have been able to get through it without you."

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I swallow hard against the sudden rush of emotion that sweeps over me. Because Lord knows, she's right, and I'm not so sure that I could have got through this year without her helping to keep things around here on an even keel. "I got something for you too," I admit, reaching under my desk and pulling out a paper carrier bag, standing and handing it across the table to her. 

"CJ, you shouldn't have," she tells me, and I wave my hand, enjoying the ways her eyes light up as she pulls the parcel out, looking at me with wide eyes and raised brows that can only mean one thing. "Open it," I tell her, and she doesn't have to be told twice, tearing into the wrapping with abandon. I leave my own present where it is and watch her. It's well known around the West Wing that Donna Moss reverts into a state of childlike wonder when it comes to Christmas, and while certain quarters might make light of it, in reality, it's something that we all love to see. A lot of us around the West Wing are too jaded to enjoy Christmas like that, and it's good to see that not everyone has reached that point yet. 

When she pulls out a gift set from Bath and Body Works, she grins happily. "All my favourites," she tells me, and I smile proudly at her, having picked it out with just that reaction in mind. 

"I thought you could use something to help you relax after spending all day every day with Josh Lyman," I quip and she nods. 

"Well, my present was bought with the same thoughts in mind." She tilts her head to one side and smiles knowingly. "Plus, I didn't exactly want you opening it in front of the idiot boys."

Those words, and the distinctly devilish gleam in her eyes, leave me torn between opening the box and hiding it until I get home. "Is this even safe to open?" I ask with a laugh. 

Donna laughs too, grabbing another cookie and biting into it. "I was very restrained," she tells me when she swallows her mouthful, and, with a quick glance around to reassure me that it really is just the two of us in the office, I open the present. The box reads Victoria's Secret, no surprise there, and when I open it, I find a beautiful night-gown in my favourite shade of red. It's just right, the perfect size and colour, and elegant to boot. 

"This is wonderful," I tell her honestly. "Thank you."

Her eyes dance and she stands, making sure to bring her present with her, and a few more of my cookies. "Just make sure you enjoy it," she tells me, and my mouth drops open in surprise at her words, but she's gone before I get my voice back. I stare at the closed door for a moment, her words running through my head, and my fingers trail over the red of the night-gown, then I come to a decision, leaving the reports on my table, getting my things together and heading out the door, heading home for the day. 

By some miracle, and I'm somehow unsurprised, for 'tis the season after all, the traffic is mercifully light on the way to my townhouse, and I fairly fly home, Christmas carols blaring from my car stereo, me singing along just as loudly, although a smidge less tunefully. My attention is divided though, between the road ahead of me, and the Christmases behind me, comparing this year to years gone by. 

Last Christmas, no-one around the West Wing was exactly full of the joys of the season. The Congressional hearings had just started, with Leo being questioned two days before Christmas, and we were all worried, about him and how he was handling it, and about what might come out. In the back of all our minds was the lingering worry that soon it would be our turn, and I know that I, for one, was concerned about not only the effect that it would have on my job, should I say anything that drew more trouble down upon the White House, but more of what would happen if I inadvertently said or did anything that would impede the President's chances of re-election. Plus which, whether we admitted it or not, we were all still reeling from the events of the summer, the MS announcement, and more especially, Mrs Landingham's death. The holidays following the passing of a loved one are always tough, and while, for some reason, Mrs Landingham never entered the holiday spirit as much as the rest of us, we still missed having her around. 

The Christmas before that, we were all worried about Josh, who had been acting rather peculiarly, snapping at people, freaking Donna out more so than usual, and who had come in the morning after the Congressional Christmas party sporting a clumsily wrapped bandage on his hand. Donna corralled all the Senior Staff in Leo's office before that though, had told us of her concerns, and Leo was all ready to call in ATVA, even before the infamous blow-up in the Oval Office. I spent that Christmas Eve at home, one eye on "It's A Wonderful Life", one eye on the phone, and when it rang, I pounced on it. Leo was on the other end, telling me the doctor's diagnosis, and that Donna was with Josh now. I remember breathing a sigh of relief, because I knew that if Donna was with him, he was going to be fine. 

The previous Christmas was actually a happier one. Mandy took it upon herself to organise all manner of holiday cheer, something Toby wouldn't fully appreciate until the following year, and the children's choir on Christmas Eve was a wonderful touch. We were all full of festive cheer, and of course, that was the time that I finally said yes to a date with Danny Concannon. 

I spent that Christmas Eve with him, sharing a quiet dinner, where as per my instructions, he did bring his notebook, but the dinner was hardly business. We talked about anything and everything, and dinner lasted forever, but when he left me at my front door with not even a kiss to the cheek, I realised that it hadn't nearly been long enough. 

That Christmas Eve, I curled up on my couch, watching some kind of Christmas ice skating extravaganza, and I allowed myself to consider, for the first time, the possibility of a relationship with him. 

It didn't work out of course, and I was upset about it at the time. I remember wishing that things didn't have to be so complicated, that he wasn't so damn proud of being a reporter, that he'd just take the editor's job he'd been offered. 

I realise now, with twenty-twenty hindsight, that maybe things were meant to be that way, and that brings a smile to my face as I pull into my parking space and walk up the stairs, grateful for the blast of heat that strikes me as I walk inside. It's cold outside, and I don't doubt that there'll be snow before nightfall. 

I've seen my fair share of white Christmases since I've moved to Washington, but I've never been quite so giddily romantic at the thought before.

The reason for my rather uncharacteristic giddiness becomes apparent when I open my front door, to be immediately met by the distinctive aroma of a cooking turkey, and by the sight of a brightly lit Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. I can just about make out the smell of the pine needles from here, and that makes me smile. I'd never had a real tree before this year, never had the time or inclination to go out and find one. However, this year, I was over-ruled by a majority of one, which explained why I spent an entire Sunday afternoon walking through a lot filled with trees, looking for the perfect tree. I was bundled up like the abominable snowman, and I was still freezing, and by the time he found the perfect tree, I was willing to take any tree, perfection be damned. When we got the thing loaded into the car, I had to point out that we didn't have decorations enough for it, but he casually told me that we did, that he'd gone shopping the previous day. 

I thought he'd lost his mind, but when we were sitting curled up together on my couch, sipping hot chocolate by the lights of the tree, I changed my mind. 

"I'm home," I call out as I hang up my coat, and before I can turn around, a pair of strong arms slip around my waist, and a kiss is pressed into the hollow of my neck. The shiver that goes through me has nothing to do with cold, and I turn and kiss him hello properly, wondering why I didn't leave earlier today. I could have been doing this hours ago. 

"You're late," he tells me with a playful growl when we finally come up for air, and I shake my head with laughter. 

"You were on the President's detail for long enough," I point out to him, leading him into the kitchen. "When did he ever leave on time?" Simon nods his acknowledgement, and I don't miss the way his eyes light up when I throw the box of cookies on the table. "I brought these home for you."

"Are they Carol's?" Carol's cooking has become something of a legend around the West Wing this Christmas; I honestly don't think the poor woman knew what she was letting herself in for. 

"The last batch, she swears," I tell him, pouring myself a glass of wine and taking a mouthful before I make my way towards the bedroom. "Make sure you leave some for me."

"I promise," is all he says, but the glint in his eyes warns me that I'd better get changed quickly. The first order of business is to get rid of my shoes, and I end up padding around barefooted, selecting from the closet my favourite pair of faded blue jeans, the ones that are about three washes away from disintegration, but which until then are soft and comfortable, and perfect for a lazy evening in. 

"Chinese ok?" he calls in as I'm zipping up the fly. 

"Perfect," I answer, my stomach growling its assent. I throw the blouse I was wearing into the wash hamper, yanking open a drawer piled high with sweatshirts, intending to grab one of my most comfortable ones, one that's just as old and decrepit as the jeans, but my hand stills over a crisper, just washed one, and I pull it out with a flourish, putting it on. When I'm brushing my hair in front of the mirror, the West Point logo jumps out at me, as does the faint smell of fabric softener, and something that's uniquely Simon, and I chuckle mentally at the blush that creeps across my cheeks, wondering when on Earth did CJ Cregg, Press Secretary to the President of the United States, become so girlish?

The answer, of course, is very simple. May this year, when I began getting death threats, and was assigned Secret Service protection, something I railed against at the time. Simon still teases me about how cold I was to him when he first began protecting me, how I acted like it was all his fault, and he's right. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did. Somewhere along the line though, I began looking at him as more than an annoyance who followed me constantly and vandalised my Mustang. I began to see him as a person, as a friend. As more than a friend. 

Of course, it wasn't something that we could do anything about, not until the stalker was caught, and although the joke is something different, the reality is that we behaved ourselves, not kissing until we got that all important piece of news. The memory of that kiss still makes my heart skip a beat, standing in a side street on Broadway, the Presidential motorcade mere feet away. I asked him to meet me for a drink later on, and while he was a little late, something to do with paperwork that Ron Butterfield insisted he file before he meet me, he was there, looking so handsome in his tux, and that night we talked and talked until the sun came up, and we still hadn't even come close to exhausting all avenues of conversation. 

That's six months and more ago, and we still haven't. 

I'm ready to go out to the living room now, stopping to pick up one more thing on my way, and I see when I get out there that my glass of wine has refilled itself and has migrated from the kitchen to the living room, joined on the coffee table by another glass. He's sitting on the couch, looking at some movie with a cute kid and Christmas decorations all over, and I go to join him. Normally I hate films like this, but like I said earlier, 'tis the season, and this season, I'm a bleeding heart romantic, and I'm enjoying it. 

"That's my shirt," are his first words to me when I sit down, and I arch one eyebrow, giving him my best flirty grin. 

"Well, if you want me to take it off…." I purr, and he laughs, pulling me into his embrace. 

"How about we keep that for later?" he asks, kissing the top of my head. "The food's on its way, and I bet you haven't had anything all day."

"Carol's cookies don't count?" I counter, and he laughs again. 

"Not even close," is his rejoinder, and I snuggle closer against him. 

"You take very good care of me," I murmur, recalling all the times close to the election when he threatened to carry me out of the office if I didn't come home, all the times he's brought me food, left me little presents and funny emails just to keep my spirits up. I've never been spoiled like this before, and while I never thought I'd like it, I'm loving every minute. 

"Always," he murmurs quietly, taking my left hand in his, kissing the knuckles lightly, and I look up at his face, my heart skipping a beat at the love that I see in his eyes. Between us, the diamond on my left hand catches the Christmas tree lights, a thousand tiny glints of light erupting between us, all the colours of the rainbow. This is our secret for now; something we've kept from the world for the last week. Our families will be told via telephone on Christmas Day, amid strict warnings not to breathe a word, and when we're at the White House for the New Year's Eve party that the President is planning, we're going to tell everyone else. For now though, we're going to enjoy a quiet Christmas together, just the two of us. 

"What's the box you brought in?" he asks now, and I remember dropping the bag by the coat stand and leaving it there. 

"A present from Donna," I tell him with a saucy grin. "I'll show you later on." Because, let's face it, that is what she had in mind when she told me to enjoy it. He just raises an eyebrow as he presses his lips to mine, and before I'm incapable of thought completely, I send up a quick prayer of thanks for all the good things in my life. I really did mean it when I told Donna that I didn't want anything for Christmas, because I don't want, or need, any thing else. All the things I want, I've already got. 


End file.
